That Bloody Trenchcoat
by sai-salamander
Summary: Dean likes Castiel's coat DON'T WE ALL? . Strange analogies are used. Shmoop ensues.


That Bloody Trenchcoat

Okay, so it'd been about four months now since Castiel waltzed into Dean's life. All the stabbing and the shooting didn't put him off or send him running or make him retaliate, which was weird, but yeah.

And okay, so what if Dean was starting to sort of get used to the guy? So it'd been him and Sam all their lives, pretty much, and now. Well, now there was Castiel. And his habit of turning up at the most unfortunate and inopportune moments with not a hair out of place and not a change to that scruffy holy tax accountant look he sported.

And how the hell did he manage to do all that angelic mending anyway? It just wasn't right, god damn it! That bloody trenchcoat should, by rights, be in tatters. Instead, it almost mocked him with its perfection. No creases, no holes, no stains, no blood, no marks, no nothing. And there's Dean, slaving (well okay, not exactly slaving. Shut up) over mending his own clothes, or ironing, or buying new ones and washing old ones until they're nearly see-through with wear.

So one day, Dean decided to find out the secret of that bloody trenchcoat. How was it so goddamn perfect all the time? And why - the most important question of all - did it make Dean feel the almost constant urge to grab its lapels and yank Castiel towards him, trenchcoat and all, and kiss the hell out of those serious lips?

Getting Cas to leave it behind wasn't so hard - he'd recruited Sam to take him on a small hunt in a sauna - even though he did get a few funny looks about suggesting hunting in a sauna. Ghosts can totally haunt saunas.

Unfortunately, Castiel chose the precise moment when Dean had his head buried in that bloody trenchcoat to appear out of nowhere, with his hair slightly more out of place than usual.

"You're looking damp," Dean said, trying to ignore the fact that he'd just been caught sniffing a trenchcoat like a chick high on her boyfriend's aftershave.

"That's because I was in a sauna, chasing a ghost that doesn't exist," Castiel stated. "Why are you smelling my coat?"

"I wasn't smelling your coat," Dean said, dropping it like a pasty that'd just spilled its boiling-hot filling onto his bare hands. "I was… um, okay, I got nothing." He sat back on his haunches, trying to further ignore Castiel's crooked tie; his mussed up, damp hair; and especially trying to ignore the way his shirt seemed to stick to parts of him that were previously un-stuck-to with the moisture. "If you'd got any wetter, we could've had a wet t-shirt competition."

"I'm not sure I want to participate in any wet t-shirt competition, Dean."

"Well that's just unsporting, Cas. Wet t-shirt competitions are a thing of beauty! Probably one of the best inventions of modern times. Well," he paused. "I'm not sure you could class them as an actual invention. You know what I mean."

"I'm not wearing a t-shirt." Cas looked puzzled. "And I'm not really sure what the point of these competitions is."

"The point is to get as many girls as possible to get as soaking wet as they can without actually making them strip. You'd be surprised at how many classy chicks aren't willing to get naked, but they'll gladly let you soak them through with a hose in the name of Spring Break."

"You're prevaricating."

"Yup!" said Dean, cheerfully. "Wet t-shirt competitions, Cas. They're the future."

"I'm not a… chick, Dean. You may have noticed."

"I have noticed, as a matter of fact," Dean looked down, fixing his eyes firmly on the coat. Don't make eye contact! Maybe he'll go away!

Castiel crouched down in front of Dean, employing his usual 'personal space? What personal space?' motto. He leaned forwards until their noses were almost touching and caught Dean's eyes with his own. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

"Maybe."

Castiel sat back on his haunches, mirroring Dean's position. His face settled into a peaceful expression as he waited for Dean to be ready.

"Okay, you know how when you go shopping and you see a… really nice coat?"

"I get the feeling I'm going to have to just let you carry on with this analogy until you've talked it out, aren't I?"

"You got it," Dean smiled, attempting to steel himself to finish what he'd started. "Anyway. A really nice coat, right? But it's not really the kind of coat you've ever worn before. You're not sure if it suits you. Hell, you're not even sure if other people will beat you up for… liking this kind of coat. And then it doesn't help that it's really _different_ to every other kind of coat you've had before. What would you do? You know, in that situation."

"I'd say try the coat on. See how it fits. Maybe the coat _wants_ you to wear it."

"The coat is you, Cas."

"I know," Castiel smiled.

Dean fiddled with the trenchcoat's collar then paused as Castiel's hand came to rest atop his. "You want me to _wear you_?"

"There's such a thing as taking the analogy too far." Castiel raised a cool hand to Dean's chin and lifted his head. "But yes, if you want. I would very much like for you to wear me."

A smile that was all too rare these days lit Dean's face. It was an uncertain smile, but Castiel treasured it nonetheless.

"Good," he said. "Now put this bloody trenchcoat back on so that I can kiss you."


End file.
